


Home, Bittersweet Home, Chicago

by ChesterGhost76



Category: Shameless (US)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-06
Updated: 2017-09-06
Packaged: 2018-12-24 02:30:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12003081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChesterGhost76/pseuds/ChesterGhost76





	1. The Docks

Left foot wedged into one hole of the shaky chain link fence, both hands wrapped tightly around the rusty bar running across the top, Mickey hops once - twice - three times before achieving the momentum to swing his right leg up high enough for the bottom of his rubber heel to catch at the top of the steel rail. Hugging the bar to himself with both arms, he lets his left foot pull out of the link in the fence. Immediately, a sharp pain stretches from his hamstring down to his groin, as he hangs by his right heel. He struggles to gain traction with the sole of his freed foot as it squeaks and slides down the metal. Clinking and clanking sounds surround him as his jabbing foot causes the fencing to bang against the posts. With a grimace, he musters up the rest of his core strength to hoist himself all the way up. Perched on his stomach, a balancing act on this rusty banister for a quick second, before allowing himself to slide the rest of the way over and falling onto his back with a thud. 

Mickey remains in that position for a beat, arms and legs splayed out, to look up into the crisp midnight sky. “Stargazing.” That’s what his sister used to call it sarcastically on those nights he arrived home too drunk for his legs to support his weight. Too wobbly to make it up the front steps of the house, he’d fall to the ground in a helpless heap. Laying there in the front yard, looking up at the sky, until she peered out the front door and noticed him.

“Hey shit head. Looking up at the stars again? Last thing you need is a public intox!”

Irritated, she’d march down the stairs to lecture him more and threaten to leave him there. Sometimes she did leave him there, but usually she dragged him up by his shirt collar. An action always preceded first by a sharp kick to the ribs - a cheap shot - such a fuckin' cheater kicking him while he was down like that. “OWWW! What the FUCK, Mandy?!” Unceremoniously she'd yanked him up to his feet. Then they’d scuffle the entire way up the concrete steps, her with a fistful of his hair or an arm around his neck in a choke hold; him slapping her in the back of the head or trying to tangle his leg into hers so she'd trip. Once inside the house, she’d give him a hard shove invariably causing him to trip over his own feet and fall to the ground again. 

Mickey snorts at the memory. "Man, that seems so long ago" he says out loud to no one. He wonders how long he had been in Mexico. He really doesn’t have any idea since he never bothered to keep track. "Gotta be at least 2 or 3 years now..." He starts counting on his fingers. "Maybe four?... Or, five?...." He shakes his head, "Fucking long ass time, that's for sure." Arms dropped back to his sides, he continues staring into the sky as his mind wanders.

Everything about his Chicago life, before his Mexico life, feels like it happened a lifetime ago. Sometimes, it feels so far away, that it seems as if it never really happened at all; like it was all part of a dream or something. The memory of his sister and their juvenile hijinks, being back in this city, even his ability to heave himself over that goddamn fence. He swears it used to be easier to climb over it. And then the memory of the last time he was here….in this spot...the night when his heart skipped because he hadn’t really expected him to show up….  

“Ugh! Stop it.” Admonishing himself, he drags his palms over his face. Why is his mind so cruel to him? Whenever he slows down to just linger inside of his head for a moment, his mind uses the opportunity to betray him, always taking him right back to the most painful memories... He has to jolt himself out of it, keep himself moving, never allow his mind to idle. 

Taking a deep breath, Mickey twists over onto his hands and knees and pushes himself up off the ground. Brushing the dirt off his chest, pulling his navy blue skull cap down a little tighter, he rubs his hands together and exhales hotly into them for warmth as he scans the train yard. A clear night, with only a whisper of clouds swirling in the sky; the moon, full and bright, glints wetly off train tracks slicked with droplets of early morning dew. Light bounces and ricochets off the steel beams of the bridge in the distance, giving the air around it a pale greenish-yellow glow, and ever so slightly illuminating the graffiti that decorates the aluminum walls on either side of him. He can hear the faint sounds of the river water up ahead. At least everything was right as he left it. 

Retrieving his backpack from where it landed after he had flung it over the fence, his heavy boots crunch on the rocks as he makes his way towards that metal skeleton ahead. Criss-crossing over the converging train tracks, he playfully tests out his tight rope walking skills on the metal rims, taking care to avoid the switching rails. “Get your foot stuck in one of those motherfuckers and you may as well kiss your ass goodbye” he warns himself. Mickey has a lot of conversations with himself these days.

For a moment, he feels content, because this is what it feels like to be back “home.” Surrounded by the city, he stands on top of the darkened and desolate train tracks. The cool autumn air has that distinct damp and earthy scent intermingled with exhaust fumes, asphalt, and smoke. Sirens wail faintly in the distance alongside car horns and squealing tires. Red and green traffic lights flicker at the ends of the streets in either direction. Looking upward, he can see the Sears Tower hulking into the sky on the horizon. It’s illuminated windows twinkling like stars, red lights at the tip top of the antennas peering around like two eyes on the lookout. Certainly there was never a more welcoming sight for a homesick Chicagoan than that tower. 

Why Mickey finds such comfort in this particular spot, by an old railroad bridge next to a marina, he’ll probably never know. He guesses it’s probably just because it’s always been here. No matter what happens, no matter how many years have gone by, how many losses and upsets he’s endured, or how many things have changed, here remains a constant. A peaceful oasis right in the middle of the hustle and bustle of the city. A place he can always run to and hide from life for a while. A patch of nature surrounded by everything urban. No one else seems to even notice it’s here among the shadows of abandoned warehouses, debilitated old yachts, and broken down freight cars. The remnants of an era lost in time. Mickey wonders, how long has this place stood here? At least 100 years, perhaps 150. Did the person who designed that bridge feel the same bond and connection to it as he did? Was this creation someone’s child, their legacy, their last dying flash of pride in life? Did that person hope that someday someone else would love it as much? Perhaps no one ever cared about it at all. Sometimes people create things and then they just forget about them when they move onto the next thing. Maybe that bridge welcomes him because it understands how it feels to be cast aside and forgotten about. Most likely though, that bridge doesn’t give a shit about anything, because it’s just a bridge.

Stepping up to the mouth of said bridge, Mickey's toe gingerly stabs the metal grating between the wooden railroad ties and the jutting steel arms of the structure. Secure. "Of course, it is. It couldn’t really be not-secure if it’s maintaining the weight of a thousand passing trains every day" he smarts off to himself. But you never know. Even steel lets people down sometimes. Grabbing onto a crossbar for support, he inches closer towards the center, fear punches at him as he becomes aware this catwalk he’s on is suspended into the air. 

Mickey can see the water below now. Red, yellow, blue and green lights from tall buildings dance on the surface, skirting around the ripples of the black water. How cold is that water? If he flipped himself over this bar, and splashed into that abyss, would it envelope him in a deep embrace, and lull him to a peaceful sleep forever? Or would the shock and pain of freezing cold pierce his soul? Would one feel worse than the other?

Lighting a cigarette, inhaling deeply, he leans over the railing and continues to let himself be mesmerized by the little waves. His eyes drift lazily back and forth with the current as it inches languidly towards the shoreline. Casually, his gaze continues to snake upward with the steps, from the pier to where the boats sit covered and dry docked at the marina. Flickering in and out of the back of his mind, like a damaged film projector, is a fragmented motion picture of a lanky muscled torso pressed sweaty against his back, long arms intertwined under his own, hot breath at the nape of his neck, and a wet tongue at his ear. His own breath hitches as his stomach clenches at the images. He’s unsure if the reaction is arousal or heartache or perhaps a little of both. A chilly autumn breeze lifts his long dark locks off his face as he chews his lower lip in contemplation.

The L train rattles past loudly along its rail somewhere behind him, interrupting his current thoughts by introducing new ones. He closes his eyes to hear it better. How he has missed that sound. Never again would he curse it for jarring him awake in his bed at the crack of dawn. Figures he’d give just about anything to be in his own bed right now. Never again would he bitch about it drowning out the sound of the tv. What he wouldn’t give to have to get up off his ass and walk over to that piece of shit to crank up the volume. Not that he was usually the one who had to do it. He'd just bark out the order to one of his siblings, instead.

Mickey misses them, too. Every last one of those wastes-of-spaces who were related to him in some fashion or another. Shit, speaking of waste of space, he could even miss those loud mouthed Russian whores. Amazing to think of how many people were around back then. A horde all crammed into that tiny house. God, he hated it. Nowhere to go for privacy, never a single moment of peace and quiet. Someone was always yelling or crying or breaking something. Bodies sprawled everywhere, in every corner, on every chair, in every bed, even littered on the floor. You’d trip over at least 3 people on your way from the couch to the refrigerator and then trip over 4 different ones on your way back again. It’s hard to believe there was a time when his life felt so crowded.

Mickey's reality is different now. For the past however-fucking-long-it-has-been, he has lived mostly solitary. True, he has a couple of "acquaintances" in Mexico. A pseudo-family who look out for him, who help him, and who seem to care about him for some reason. But, the language barrier builds a wall preventing the deeper bond he craves; bonds like the ones he left in his old neighborhood. Then again, maybe the grass just seems greener in Chicago because it's been so long and his memory is playing nostalgic tricks on his emotions. How strong were any of those so-called bonds at home, really?

Left in prison to rot alone, then left at the border of Mexico to figure it all out alone. Mickey wonders if any of those guys ever think about him or care to know what he's been up to. He's done pretty well for himself, considering... And, he must admit, it wouldn't have happened if it wasn't for his mentor and that whatever-he-should-call-him-fuck-friend back in the village. He's gotten much further in life as an outlaw on the run in Mexico than he every did as a legitimate American citizen. No thanks to anyone from his real family. They likely have long forgotten he even exists. Shit, if he was dead, none of them would ever know it. To his chagrin, Mickey still misses their company, though. He’d probably sell his soul right here and now to be in that shit hole of a house with everyone arguing because at least he would be inside of a house. There’d be people to talk to, makes joke with or at their expense, perhaps even share a little bit of physical intimacy somewhere…

“Jesus Christ, stop it with the pity party thoughts already.”

As Mickey begins to aim the daggers of reprimand inward on himself for being such a whiney little bitch, he’s startled out of it by the loud blaring of an alarm. "Oh shit. Aw fuck. SHIT! FUCK!" He was so busy daydreaming that he hadn’t noticed the barge approaching. What a rookie move. He really was out of practice.

The steel bridge jolts and creaks awake as it starts to slowly ascend. Mickey tosses his cigarette over the edge into its watery grave as he grabs onto the cold railing with one hand for support and allows his other arm to flail uselessly for dramatic effect. He walk-runs as quickly as he can to the safe zone, hopping over the slabs of metal jutting outward into his path. "Don’t slip, don’t get your foot stuck in the track, don’t trip – FUUUUUCK!!!" A steel blade cuts into his ankle as he lands hard on one knee. Gritting his teeth through the pulsating pain, he can already feel the hot blood dripping down his icy skin. Squeezing his eyes shut hard, fighting back the tears, hugging his wounded leg, Mickey kind of wants to just curl up right here and curse the world. But he can’t, not now, because who the fuck even knows what happens when this bridge goes up. He can’t know for sure that he won’t be slowly crushed to death. And, it’s certainly not slowing down its clambering climb upwards into the unknown while he cries over it like a baby.

Panicking, he claws at the wet floor on his hands and knees. He's shaking and slipping around too much to get enough of a foothold to get back on his feet. So, a half-assed army crawl it is, towards the sacred end of the platform. Finally nearing the ledge, the alarm still blaring into his soul making everything seem more life threatening than it likely is, he slides off on his stomach. Mickey falls face first into the rocks below. Can it still be called stargazing if your face is buried in the earth? Probably not.

For the second time this night, Mickey pushes himself up off the ground. Hands stinging from the pebbles embedded into the fleshy parts of his palms, his ankle throbbing down to the bone, his heart pounding, dirt and leaves stuck to his face and tangled into his hair, black hoodie twisted halfway around his torso, and his ego severely bruised. He is so sick of this shit!

A tidal wave of emotion and frustration washes over him as a tantrum looms to the surface. He kicks the rocks.

"Can’t I ever catch a break in this goddamn city?!" he shouts.

He turns to kick one of the metal control boxes sticking out of the ground.

"As if I asked to be born here!"

Kicks the metal box again, harder this time.

"Like I ever fucking asked to be born at all!"

Two more swift kicks to the box and then he stomps his foot.

He wasn’t even asking for much right now. Just needed to come back here to tie up some loose ends. Ease some of his homesickness away. Was that too much to fucking ask?! Couldn’t it just be easy for him for a change? He throws his arms up into the air in exasperation.

"Does everything have to be a FUCKING shit show?!"

He grabs his backpack from his back and hurls it over his head and slams it to the ground. He gives it a good kick.

Jesus, he’d be gone soon enough. Not like he had any actual choices in the matter.

Pulls his hat off and throws it up, kicking it mid-air, as it sails away from him and lands a few feet away.

"Not like I could stay even if I wanted to! Made damn well sure that could never happen!" he yells.

Dropping his head he presses the heels of his palms to his eyes in attempt to stifle the tears. Now he starts to regret returning at all. He's beginning to yearn for the place where life seems simpler. Missing being back on the beach in Mexico. There's fuck all to do there and the boredom causes the days to all blur together, but that kind of life also lends a sense of calm. Hard to get upset when nothing is there to get upset about. He's not been back in the city for 5 minutes and he's already falling apart. Maybe he can't hack this complicated life any longer.

Pulling his hands away from his eyes, sniffling loudly, he wipes his arm across his nose.

Adrenaline pumping now, Mickey turns to face the barge as it slices through the black water where the bridge used to be. He can hear the metal clanking above as the giant wheels crank the platform higher up into the sky. As loud as his lungs will allow, he screams at it: “FUCK YOU!!!!!!”


	2. The Mexican Border

Mickey’s stumble across the Mexican border was far from graceful. Riding on an intoxicating high for life, followed by the crippling blow of Ian metaphorically, and sort of literally, kicking his ass to the Mexican curb. To this day, he can’t quite comprehend how he allowed himself to be misled into believing Ian had any intention of accompanying him. After all, who the hell moves to Mexico with nothing but a half empty back pack? The signs were all there, but Mickey had chosen not see them. He only wanted to believe that Ian would follow him to the ends of the earth. He did this to himself, caused his own misery. At least, he blamed himself for it, he let his heart cloud his mind. The consequence was a hefty one too - punched in the heart. Again. How many times did he allow it to happen over the years? God, he was such an idiot. The pay back for being a clueless dumbass were the restless nights spent sobbing over it. He had learned his lesson, though. Learned it good. Unfortunately, the damage had already been done as he crossed the border gates alone. From that moment on, he had nothing but time to dwell on all of the events leading up to that circle of hell. And dwell on it he did.

Mickey's first night in Mexico was excruciating. Huddled in the back seat of his car, parked behind a decrepit billboard sign in the middle of nowhere, Mickey decided to drown his sorrow in a bottle of cheap tequila. But, mostly, he just drunkenly crawled around, both inside the cramped space of the car and spilling outside onto the dusty earth. Unable to calm his torment, incapable of sitting motionless for any length of time, that black hole at the pit of his stomach curled up around his heart and knotted in the back of his throat. Alternating between sitting on his knees staring listlessly into the distance and dropping down to bury his face into the ground, crying out in utter anguish. He didn’t care if the dirt and sand were grinding into his gums and clogging his nostrils. All he wanted to do was sob and he wished he’d just suffocate already, anyway. Occasionally, he’d tip over onto his side, curl up into the fetal position, to cradle himself. But, never staying in that position for long, because laying still was worse than moving about. So back up he’d get to crawl around and repeat the cycle. Never fully falling asleep, the best he could wish for was a few moments of black out as a small reprieve for his soul, before the thoughts started seeping back in to haunt him again.

From that point forward, the days endured without end; spent driving aimlessly across this foreign country, without a destination in mind or even an inkling as to what direction to head in. He journeyed onward without a plan, zig-zagging through the landscape. Never bothering to check his location on a map; not caring if he was covering new terrain or just going in circles. Existing in a daze, he honestly wouldn’t have noticed if he passed the same intersection repeatedly. But, vaguely, he was aware that sometimes he was driving past water, other times over the open desert, and in some cases maneuvering his shitty little car over steep and twisting mountain roads. 

He assumed if he was going in circles, they must at least be pretty wide ones. Perhaps, that counted for something. Although, in the dark recess of his mind, where the tiniest spark of logic still resided, he kind of wished he appreciated the scenery a little more. After all, this was the first time he had left not only Chicago, but the country. More importantly he was FREE. Not just free from prison, although that obviously mattered quite a bit, but also just free of his old life. No one to hold him down, tell him who he should be or how he should be it. Not many people are awarded the chance to completely start over. He didn’t know it at the time, but this was a new beginning in life, a blank slate, and nothing but opportunity lay ahead. 

Weeks of aimless wandering later, exhausted beyond comprehension, he decided he needed to get the fuck out of this car. Enough of sleeping contorted in the back seat and spending hours upon hours behind the wheel. Besides, the money Ian had given him was quickly burning up in gas fumes. Soon, he wouldn’t be able to afford to drive any farther anyway. It was time to figure shit out. 

Some time ago, on the road, his tears dried up and his grief dulled into apathy. He just didn’t give a shit anymore. Didn’t have the energy to care about the past. His reality now, whether he liked it or not, was solitary, directionless, forgotten, and unloved. "Fucked. Just like old times." He reminded himself. 

And, while he passed through life like a ghost, he knew that if he didn’t take care of himself, no one else was going to do it for him. So, even though he didn’t really make any effort to choose where to end up, he did decide to start haphazardly following the signs pointing him to the promise of beach, sun, and happiness. He figured if he could get at least one out the three, that’d be something.

Shortly before dusk, Mickey arrived on foot at a port to catch a ferry across the bay. There was a resort town on the other side and he figured that might be a good place to end up. He had abandoned the car several miles back, driving it into a shallow ditch just inside the tree line, doing his best to conceal it with branches. He might need it again someday but he didn’t want to park it out in the open near the place he might settle down in for a length of time. The last thing he needed was an advertisement of his whereabouts.

With only his knapsack on his back, a pack of cigarettes tucked into his shirt, and a few bucks left in his pocket, he crossed the creaky plank and boarded the small ship that would take him to the next chapter. Whatever the hell that was going to be.


End file.
